


unspoken

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Post-Chinatown, Titanic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 12:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: I sat wrapped in a blanket, lost in thought, and then Flynn kissed me. And finally the pain I've felt for so long dissipated. So I kissed him back...Again. And again...We needed each other that night. I could see it in the way Flynn looked at me. I felt it in the way he took me in his arms, the same arms I used to run from - but not anymore. That night, I felt safe, and protected, and loved.[Or: The one where the Titanic mission actually happens. As does the aftermath.]





	unspoken

_“That’s not why I’m here.”_

_“Why are you here?”_

There is nowhere to hide the Lifeboat on the Titanic, so when the alarms go off maybe two weeks after losing Rufus, the alt-versions of Lucy and Wyatt offer the use of their machine. A quick trip to drop Lucy, Flynn, and alt-Wyatt with some device to call the ship back to them when they need i, and it’s done. Their Wyatt stays back with the others, Denise unwilling to trust him, Jiya working with the tech specs from the alts to pinpoint where to go, how to save Rufus without ripping something else apart. There isn’t exactly a quick and easy fix. 

But the Titanic...it’s easy to think how Rittenhouse could make it worse, although why is certainly a question. Lucy tries to stop the whole thing, tries to convince the captain the route he picked is dangerous, that there might be an iceberg, that there aren’t enough lifeboats should anything happen—better to save lives than take them, right? Why should they preserve history exactly as it is when so much of it is terrible? 

The captain doesn’t listen. And it’s so much worse than she ever imagined. They even manage to stop the sleeper from setting off the bomb he’s planted to make the ship sink faster, but even the reality is horrifying—screams echoing as people scramble to make it into lifeboats, the ship groaning, belongings sliding across the deck and into the water. Lucy herself almost falls over the rail once, just barely catching herself in time. 

The agony in Flynn’s voice when he calls out for her, the relief on his face, the desperation in the way he touches her as they haul themselves back to where alt-Wyatt is waiting to call the Lifeboat—that stays with her too.

_“That’s not why I’m here.”_

_“Why are you here?”_

They don’t talk when they get back. Lucy gives Denise a cursory overview and then disappears to change her clothes, avoiding Wyatt’s concerned gaze and alt-Lucy’s intrigued one. There’s no real point in showering to rid herself of the cold lingering in her skin, her bones. There isn’t water hot enough in the world and the bunker doesn’t have much of that anyway. 

She sits under a blanket instead, long after everyone else has gone to sleep, thinking about how she ended up here, what her life was meant to be, how she can’t _do_ this, she isn’t strong enough—

And she thinks about Flynn. The fire of the Hindenburg seems so far away now. She thinks about how terrified she was in those first moments, not knowing who to trust, what to believe, her whole world ripped out from under her with a handful of words.

She never needed to be afraid of him, she know that now. It was always Rittenhouse, always Rittenhouse. Flynn was right. He’s always been right. And maybe if she’d just _listened_ to him sooner—

“Lucy?”

Lucy starts and looks up to find Flynn standing in the doorway, eyeing her the way one might an easily-spooked cat that could run at any second. She pulls the blanket tighter around her—god, why is she so cold—and moves over on the couch, making space in a silent offering of good will.

They haven’t really gotten to be alone since Chinatown. Everyone has been busy and she’s been trying to sort herself out, how she feels about almost killing Emma, how she feels about losing her mother, about giving up her locket, about Rufus, about Wyatt’s confession in the aftermath and what Flynn himself might have said if they hadn’t been interrupted—if she’s honest, she’s been afraid to be alone with him. Not because she’s afraid of _him_ , no, not anymore. She hasn’t been afraid of him for a long time. But this...thing between them, whatever it is, lingers in the back of her mind, looms large and all-consuming. Wyatt hurt her, yes. But this is—she doesn’t want to name it, isn’t sure she can, but she knows that if she gives over to it, if she allows it, if she ever lost Flynn afterwards—she might not survive that. She wouldn’t survive that. _That_ is what terrifies her.

Flynn crosses the room and sits gingerly, pressing himself against the side of the couch to leave space between them the way he had after their day with JFK. Lucy hates it as much as she’s grateful for it. She’s needed this Flynn—this soft, supportive, gentle Flynn—but sometimes it was easier to deal with the first version she met. The one who all but laughed at subtlety, who had no qualms about telling her everything without a care for whether it might shock or distress her. Because she needs that sometimes.

She’s afraid to press him about the journal even though she knows it must say more than what Flynn told her after 1981. She’s afraid to press him about how he feels, why he’s here. At least with words anyway. And he won’t offer, biting back what he wants to say, pushing down his own wants and needs for the sake of this tentative, fragile partnership they share. 

It’s not fair. Lucy knows that. She shouldn’t allow it, should stop pretending that she’ll ask when she’s ready as if she ever could be. But she does. And so they exist in limbo, so much felt, but so little spoken, neither of them willing to just cross the line. 

“Are you okay?” Flynn asks.

Lucy considers brushing it off for half a second. From anyone else, she would. But she’s cold and she’s tired, god so fucking tired, and Flynn is...Flynn. 

_“Out of everyone here, you really are the easiest to talk to.”_

“I’m—” She swallows hard and sniffs. She can still smell icy seawater cut through with acrid smoke. “You know, when I started this I thought there was so much value in preserving history. Even the bad parts. But today—people died, so many people, so horribly, and for what? Arrogance? Deficient safety regulations?”

“We can’t save everyone,” Flynn says quietly. 

“I know,” Lucy replies. “But can’t we save _anyone_? Your family, my sister, Rufus—hell, I really would take a random stranger on a boat right now. Anything. Because we just keep doing the same thing, going around and around in circles, playing catch up to stop Rittenhouse from killing good people who weren’t supposed to die...but what about the ones who were? What is the point of having a time machine if we can’t make things _better_?”

“It could cause chaos,” he points out, although there’s a smile quirking his lips.

“Maybe a little chaos is worth it if it means stopping Rittenhouse,” she says. “Wasn’t that your philosophy once upon a time?”

“It may have been. I’m only surprised to hear you coming around to my point of view.”

“Maybe I’ve been seeing things from your point of view for a while. We’re supposed to be quite the team, isn’t that what you’ve always said?”

Flynn’s face shutters, cautious, wary the way it got when she panicked after 1981, realizing that she wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say only after she was already too far into the conversation to back out. 

“I’ve said a lot of things,” he says carefully. “The journal said a lot of things, too.”

There are only inches of space between them—technically it would be easy to reach out and touch him—but they feel like miles. 

Lucy bites her lip, a familiar panic welling up saying this is too much, too fast, too soon. She didn’t intend for them to end up here tonight, but they have nonetheless. In the dark, the silence—maybe it’s easier to be honest in the dark. Or maybe she’s just too tired to care. 

_“That’s not why I’m here.”_

_“Why are you here?”_

“Is that why you’re here?” She asks. “The journal?”

_“You’ll have to wait and see. We both will.”_

“Lucy…” Flynn sighs and rubs a hand over his face. It strikes her that he’s as exhausted as she is—they’ve both sold their souls in different ways, paid too many prices already, but he’s paid more than any of them. All for the greater good. “This hasn’t been about the journal for a long time.”

“Then…?”

_“Why are you here?”_

She knows. She may have tried not to think about it, may have tried not to admit it, but she knows. It’s in the way he looks at her, the way he’s touched her since she broke him out of prison. She knows. And now they aren’t in a back room where her mother died, they’re in sweats instead of period clothes, he isn’t on his knees, but it’s the same. They were always going to end up here again. 

Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps they’ve always been inevitable. 

In the back of her mind, the possibilities threaten to overwhelm her, tightening her chest. And yet, she’s so tired of pretending that Garcia Flynn hasn’t been the only person she could count on for months. 

Flynn doesn’t answer, his eyes dropping to her mouth, then looking away, and Lucy aches with a flash of fierce want. Afraid and jumbled up inside though she may be, she _wants_. And she doesn’t want to have to ask, doesn’t want the pressure of closing the gap, making a move when she did that with Wyatt only for it to implode so spectacularly. But—

“Please.” The single word forces its way out of her throat and Flynn’s eyes widen as they flick back to hers. Her hand settles on his chest and he stills, barely even breathing. 

He has the same look on his face as he did in Chinatown, half-agonized and desperately vulnerable, and Lucy wonders if she’s not the only one who is afraid. 

She deliberately glances at his lips, then sways in, her pulse racing like she’s on a tightrope, standing over an endless chasm. She pulls back, unable to take the leap, but not entirely. Her fingers curl into his shirt as she wets her lips.

“Please,” she whispers again. Flynn holds her gaze, dawning comprehension in his.

_Choose for me. For both of us. Please. Just do it._

He kisses her. 

It’s barely a kiss, light as a feather as though he’s afraid she’ll shatter if he presses too hard, or run, or slap him. She can’t recall the last time she was kissed so softly. Maybe never. 

Lucy waits for it to hurt, waits for it to break something open inside her, to leave her bloody and raw and aching. She’s used to that. That’s how it was with Wyatt, that’s how it’s been with far too many others—intimacy hurts. That’s just how it works. 

Except...except this doesn’t. Flynn kisses her and it draws a sigh from her. Instead of fear, instead of hurt, it’s like stepping into a hot bath, warmth filling her, finding all of her broken and cracked places and filling them in, sealing them up. They’re still there, but they’re whole—cracked pottery shot through with gold. 

One kiss and she feels like she’s home. 

So, she kisses him again. Harder, although still careful. She isn’t the only one of them with fragile pieces after all. She kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, and Flynn kisses her back, giving her everything, giving her all of him, banishing all of the dark for just a moment. When Lucy climbs into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, he smiles and she laughs against him, and then his arms are around her and he’s opening his mouth so she can kiss him deeper. 

She can’t get close enough, wants to climb inside of him and let him envelop her because he is safety and warmth and hope and love, so much love, everything she thought she wouldn’t have again. But she does—those hands that once gripped her wrist tight enough to pull her along with him spreading wide and gentle and soft over her back, her waist, her hips, no expectation in the touches but clearly unable to stop as her own delve into his hair—she does and it’s Flynn, it’s _all_ Flynn, maybe was always meant to be Flynn— _What if God led you to me?_ —and there really must be something of Rittenhouse in her after all because she never wants to let him go, not ever—

Lucy makes a soft noise of disapproval when Flynn pulls back, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.

“Why’d you stop?” She asks. 

“You’re crying,” he replies, his thumb wiping away the remnants of tears she hadn’t even realized were falling.

“I’m—” Lucy considers it, laughing wetly when it dawns on her. “I’m happy.” 

“Are you?”

Lucy doesn’t answer that with words, instead leaning in again, kissing him slow and deep, feeling it in her very soul. 

“Can we—can we go to your room?” She asks when she pulls back. Flynn hums and presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw that makes her shiver.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But—” He takes her hands and brings them to his lips. “—I don’t want to rush this. Not with you. So…”

“To sleep,” Lucy says. “Just to sleep. That is, if you’re up for holding me all night?”

She gasps and laughs when he gets his arms around her again and stands, sending her scrabbling to grip onto him even though she knows the last thing he would ever do is let her fall. 

“Garcia Flynn!”

He flashes her a grin, wide and open and bright, the kind of smile she doesn’t think she’s ever seen from him before. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replies. “I assumed you meant starting immediately.” 

She’s still laughing when he kisses her again and carries her off to bed. He does, in fact, hold her all night. And in the morning, there are no other shoes to drop, no swords waiting to fall. 

It doesn’t hurt. She loves him and it doesn’t hurt. 

She doesn’t say it. Neither does he. But they don’t need to say it to know. 

They’re used to the unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> In which that movie can go screw itself in the entirety. My salt knows no bounds. So here, have some feelings of the We Could Have Had it All variety.


End file.
